PS 
3313 

A425 
1905 
MAIN 


THE     STORY    OF     A 

LITERARY 
CAREER 


BY 


E:L:LA    WHEELER    WILCOX 


With  description 
of  Mrs.  Wilcox's 
Home  and  Life, 

....     by     , 

ELLA    GULES    BUDDY 


ELLA   WHEELER   WILCOX. 


THE  STORY  OF  A 
LITERARY    CAREER 

BY 
ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

With  Description  of  Mrs.  Wilcox's  Home  and  Life, 

by 
ELLA   GILES  RUDDY. 


PRICE,  50  CENTS. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

ELIZABETH 

HOLYOKE,  MASS. 


Copyright  1905 
ELLA  WHKELER  WILCOX 


Mis 


FOREWORD. 


N  almost  every  hamlet  and 
village  in  America,  one  or 
more  Literary  Clubs  exist. 

The  study  of  living  au 
thors,  is  a  part  of  their  curric 
ulum.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  like  all  well 
known  American  authors,  receives  innumer 
able  requests  from  the  Secretaries  of  Literary 
Societies  for  information  concerning  her  life, 
methods  and  works. 

During  a  recent  visit  at  her  home,  the 
tax  upon  her  time,  clippings  and  patience  by 
such  requests  was  observable,  and  a  sugges 
tion  was  made  to  her  that  the  material 
desired  by  Literary  Clubs  be  supplied  in 
book  form. 

This  suggestion  resulted  in  the  present 
little  booklet,  which  the  Publisher  takes 
pleasure  in  presenting  to  the  public. 

ELIZABETH  TOWNE. 


17.149819 


MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


OME  one  asked  me,  not  long 
ago,  when  it  was  that  I  first 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  lit 
erary  profession  and  at  what 
age  I  first  found  myself  some 
thing  of  a  celebrity. 

I  do  not  remember  when  I  did  not  ex 
pect  to  be  a  writer,  and  I  was  a  neigh 
borhood  "  celebrity "  at  the  age  of  eight. 
The  youngest  of  my  mother's  children, 
I  seemed  to  have  had  my  career  arranged 
for  me  by  conditions  before  my  birth. 

It  has  always  been  my  belief  that 
children  inherit  the  suppressed  tendencies 
of  their  parents.  A  clergyman's  son  fre 
quently  shows  abnormal  tastes  for  the 
pleasures  that  his  father  denied  himself; 
and  talent  is  quite  often  the  full-blown 

9 


flower  of  a  little  shoot  which  circumstance 
has  crushed  under  its  heel  in  a  former 
generation. 

So  at  the  age  of  eight  I  began  to 
compose  prose  and  rhyme,  because  the 
literary  tendencies  of  my  mother  had  never 
been  gratified.  The  poetical  gift  was  no 
doubt  greatly  the  result  of  her  having 
accidental  access  to  a  library  of  the  poets, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  year 
previous  to  my  advent,  and  the  happiest 
and  most  hopeful  year  of  her  life. 

Until  I  reached  the  age  of  fourteen, 
the  neighborhood  and  the  school  satisfied 
me  as  an  audience.  I  hailed  composition- 
day  with  an  eagerness  equaled  only  by  my 
terror  of  an  examination  in  mathematics. 
It  is  human  to  love  to  shine,  and  equally 
human  to  dislike  being  humiliated  in  our 
fellow-beings'  eyes.  One  of  the  most  de 
pressing  days  in  my  life  was  when  I 

10 


stood  twenty  in  a  scale  of  one  hundred 
in  mathematics. 

My  early  literary  outlook  was  not  one 
which  would  encourage  most  aspirants. 
My  family  had  left  a  comfortable,  even  a 
luxurious,  home  for  those  days,  in  Ver 
mont  to  seek  fortune  in  the  new  West 
— Wisconsin — before  the  year  of  my  birth. 

My  father  had  been  a  music  teacher 
all  his  life,  and  when  he  attempted  to  be 
come  a  business  man  and  speculator,  he 
made  a  failure  of  it.  By  the  time  I  was 
a  year  or  two  old,  he  had  lost  the  little 
competence  he  brought  West  with  him, 
and  the  family  (two  parents  and  four  chil 
dren,  including  myself)  was  obliged  to  be 
gin  life  anew,  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
upon  a  Western  prairie,  twelve  miles  dis 
tant  from  the  nearest  town.  This  town 
was  Madison,  Wisconsin's  capital. 

11 


I  had  no  literary  advisers  or  coachers. 
My  parents  were  intellectual ;  my  mother 
was  a  great  reader  of  whatever  came  in 
her  way,  and  was  possessed  of  a  wonder 
ful  memory.  The  elder  children  were  ex 
cellent  scholars,  and  a  grammatical  error 
was  treated  as  a  cardinal  sin  in  the  house 
hold.  But  no  one  knew  anything  about 
the  methods  of  getting  into  print,  and  we 
had  no  literary  associates.  We  were,  in 
truth,  while  poor  in  worldly  goods  and 
knowledge  and  customs,  the  solitary  in 
tellectual  aristocrats  of  the  locality. 

We  had  few  books  and  only  a  weekly 
newspaper.  In  an  old  red  chest  upstairs 
were  religiously  preserved  copies  of 
"The  Arabian  Nights,"  "Gulliver's  Trav 
els,"  ujohn  Gilpin's  Ride"  and  a  few  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  The  "New  York 
Ledger "  and  the  "  New  York  Mercury " 
were  sent  to  us  by  relatives  for  several 

12 


years,  and  the  first  literary  feasts  I  in 
dulged  in  were  the  weekly  serial  stories 
of  Mrs.  Southworth  and  May  Agnes  Flem 
ing.  They  were  like  tobasco  sauce  to  the 
appetite — exciting  but  not  healthful.  They 
gave  me  false  ideas  of  life  and  added  to 
my  discontent  with  my  lonely  environ 
ment.  There  was  nothing  in  my  situation  to 
cultivate  poetical  talent,  and  I  no  doubt  owe 
my  early  development  as  a  poet  to  that  fact 
— paradoxical  as  the  statement  may  seem. 
Born  with  intense  cravings  for  pleasure, 
I  should  have  been  the  veriest  amuse 
ment-seeker  in  my  youth,  had  not  Necessity 
stood  at  my  elbow.  Whatever  genuine 
talent  we  possess  must  reveal  itself  in 
time ;  but  my  early  start  in  my  pro 
fession  was  due  to  my  desire  to  change 
and  enlarge  my  horizon  and  better  the 
conditions  of  the  home,  where  no  one  was 
contented. 

13 


At  the  age  of  nine  I  completed  a 
novel  of  eleven  chapters  headed  with  orig 
inal  rhymes.  (I  have  it  still,  bound  in  pa 
per  which  I  took  from  a  loose  panel  on 
the  kitchen  wall.) 

It  was  soon  after  this  period  that  I 
saw  my  first  editor.  He  came  from  Mad 
ison  with  a  railroad  official  to  ask  for  sub 
scriptions  for  some  proposed  new  line  of 
railroad.  He  came  in  a  "  covered  carriage  " 
— my  idea  of  elegance  and  wealth,  as  I 
rarely  saw  anything  better  than  lumber 
wagons  or  run-abouts.  I  came  from  school, 
a  long  mile  walk,  on  a  hot  summer  after 
noon,  tired  and  curious  to  know  who  was 
within.  As  I  entered  the  room  some  mem 
ber  of  the  family  presented  me,  and  the 
editor  took  me  on  his  knee. 

"  You  look  as  delicate  as  a  city  girl," 
he  said.  "  You  ought  to  be  more  robust, 
living  in  this  fine  country  air."  Editors 

14 


have  said  many  kind  things  of  me  since 
then,  but  nothing  which  ever  gave  me 
such  a  sense  of  being  a  superior  being 
as  that.  To  look  like  a  city  girl — what 
joy !  Yet  I  had  never  seen  a  city  girl 
then,  I  am  sure. 

During  my  thirteenth  year  the  "  New 
York  Mercury "  ceased  to  come  to  us.  I 
missed  its  weekly  visits  with  an  intensity 
scarcely  to  be  understood  by  one  who  has 
not  known  the  same  lonely  surroundings 
and  possessed  the  same  temperament. 
There  was  not  money  enough  floating 
around  in  those  times  to  permit  a  sub 
scription  to  the  "  Mercury,"  and  if  I  were 
to  possess  it  I  knew  I  must  either  obtain 
a  long  list  of  subscribers,  which  would  be 
a  difficult  and  laborious  undertaking,  or 
earn  it  by  my  pen. 

I  resolved  to  try.  But  fearing  failure, 
I  did  not  want  the  family  to  know  of 

15 


my  venture.  I  wrote  two  essays — just 
what  the  subjects  were  I  have  forgotten, 
and  the  clippings  were  lost  years  since. 
How  to  post  my  letter  was  the  next 
question.  I  often  acted  as  mail  carrier  to 
the  post  office,  five  miles  distant,  riding 
across  fields  and  over  fences  on  my  grace 
ful  single-footer,  Kitty,  in  company  with  a 
schoolmate,  Alice  Ellis,  who  possessed  a 
Shetland  pony.  We  rode  without  saddles, 
blanketing  and  bridling  our  own  steeds — 
and  it  is  fortunate  I  did  not  live  in  Buffalo 
Bill's  vicinity  or  my  career  might  have 
terminated  in  the  Wild  West  Show. 

While  I  could  post  a  letter  unknown 
to  my  family,  the  stamp  had  first  to  be 
obtained.  Finally  I  decided  on  a  strata 
gem.  I  was  corresponding  with  a  young 
girl,  several  years  my  senior,  who  was  in 
the  freshman  class  at  Madison  University. 
I  confided  in  her,  enclosed  the  u  Mercury  " 

16 


letter,  and  assured  her  she  would  be  re 
imbursed  for  the  stamp  when  we  next 
met.  I  would  save  my  pennies  for  that 
purpose. 

Jean  posted  my  letter  and  watched  the 
newstand  for  results.  Two  months  later, 
long  after  I  had  relinquished  all  hope, 
she  wrote  me  that  my  essays  had  ap 
peared.  Whereupon  I  wrote  a  stern  re 
proof  to  the  editor  for  not  sending  me 
the  paper,  u  at  least,  as  pay  for  my  work," 
if  he  could  afford  no  other  remuneration. 
Shortly  afterward  a  large  package  of  back 
numbers  of  the  "  New  York  Mercury " 
came  addressed  to  me  through  the  country 
post  office. 

Even  at  that  immature  period  I  had  a 
wooer — a  young  man  past  voting  age, 
possessed  of  a  mustache,  a  tenor  voice  and 
no  visible  means  of  support.  He  played 
the  violin  and  sang  u  This  night  or  never 

17 


my  bride  thou  shalt  be "  in  a  truly  fas 
cinating  manner.  He  had  been  given  to 
understand  (by  the  family)  that  his  room 
was  preferable  to  his  company,  however, 
and  had  ceased  to  call.  When  the  enor 
mous  roll  of  newspapers  direct  from  the 
editor's  office  came  to  me,  a  stern  senior 
member  of  the  household  at  once  con 
cluded  that  the  lovelorn  swain  had  sub 
scribed  to  win  new  favor  in  my  eyes. 
This  accusation  was  made  before  I  was 
questioned  on  the  subject.  Perhaps  the 
most  triumphant  and  dramatic  hour  of  my 
life  was  when  I  stepped  forth,  in  short 
skirts  and  long  ringlets,  and  announced  to 
the  family  that  not  my  would-be  lover,  but 
my  literary  work  had  procured  the  coveted 
"  Mercury "  for  our  united  enjoyment. 

The  world  seemed  to  grow  larger  and 
life  more  wonderful  from  that  hour.  I 
was  then  fourteen. 

18 


I  wrote  to  Jean  and  asked  her  to  send 
me  a  list  of  all  the  weeklies  and  month 
lies  she  could  find  in  the  bookstands,  and 
to  each  and  every  one  I  sent  essays, 
stories  and  poems  with  enthusiasm  and 
persistency.  Every  penny  was  saved  for 
postage,  and  the  family  entered  into  my 
ambitions  with  encouraging  faith  in  my 
success. 

I  soon  filled  the  house  with  all  the 
periodicals  we  had  time  to  read,  and  in 
addition  the  editors  sent  me  books  and 
pictures  and  bric-a-brac  and  tableware — 
articles  from  their  prize  lists,  which  were 
more  precious  than  gems  would  have  been 
to  me.  They  served  to  relieve  the  bare 
and  commonplace  aspect  of  the  home,  and 
the  happiness  I  felt  in  earning  these 
things  with  my  pen  is  beyond  words  to 
describe.  It  is  a  curious  incident  that  the 
first  bit  of  silverware  which  came  into 

19 


the  home  was  manufactured  by  the  house 
with  which  the  man  whose  name  I  am 
fortunate  in  bearing  today  was  afterward 
associated. 

The  very  first  verses  I  sent  for  pub 
lication  were  unmercifully  "  guyed  "  by  my 
beloved  u  Mercury."  The  editor  urged  me 
to  keep  to  prose  and  to  avoid  any  further 
attempts  to  rhyme.  He  said  that  while 
this  criticism  would  wound  me  temporar 
ily,  it  would  eventually  confer  a  favor 
on  me  and  the  world  at  large. 

I  recall  only  two  stanzas  of  that  un 
fortunate  poem.  It  related  the  woes  of  a 
lovelorn  maiden,  and  I  described  her  as 

"  She  flew  to  her  room,  locked  and  bolted  the  door, 
And  in  anguish  and  grief  threw  herself  on  the  floor." 

This  is  precisely  what  I  did  when  I 
read  the  editor's  cruel  comment.  Yet, 
after  the  first  despair  wore  off,  I  set  to 
work  with  new  fervor  and  determination 

20 


and  sent  poems  and  essays  and  stories  to 
the  "  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  "  Demorest's," 
"  Peterson's  "  and  "  Arthur's  "  magazines, 
"  Harper's,"  "  Leslie's "  and  a  score  more 
of  periodicals.  My  first  published  poem 
appeared  in  the  "  Waverley  Magazine." 

About  the  time  I  appeared  in  print  I 
left  the  country  school.  My  record  there 
had  been  wretched  in  mathematics,  while 
excellent  in  grammar,  spelling  and  read 
ing.  I  lost  interest  in  study  and  my 
mind  would  not  focus  itself  upon  school 
books.  I  lived  in  a  world  of  imagination 
and  pictured  for  myself  a  wonderful  future. 
In  this  I  was  encouraged  at  home  by  the 
ambitions  of  my  mother,  who  despised  her 
life  and  felt  herself  and  her  family  su 
perior  to  all  her  associates,  and  was  for 
ever  assuring  me  (and  them  as  well !)  that 
my  future  would  be  wholly  apart  from 
my  early  companions. 

21 


Fortunately  for  me  and  for  all  con 
cerned,  I  was  a  healthy  and  normal  young 
animal  and  fond  of  my  comrades  and  en 
joying  their  sports,  into  which  I  entered 
with  zest  despite  my  mental  aspirations 
and  literary  tendencies.  I  was  passionately 
fond  of  dancing  and  at  fifteen  attended 
the  merrymakings  of  the  grown-up  girls 
and  young  men  of  the  neighborhood,  look 
ing  with  disdain  upon  a  boy  of  my  own 
age.  An  elder  brother  and  sister  felt  con 
cerned  at  my  lack  of  education  and  my 
propensity  for  pleasure,  and  the  family 
made  great  sacrifices  and  managed  to  send 
me  off  to  Madison  University  at  about 
this  time. 

I  was  not  at  all  happy  there ;  first,  be 
cause  I  knew  the  strain  it  put  upon  the 
home  purse ;  second,  because  I  felt  the 
gulf  between  myself  and  the  town  girls, 
whose  gowns  and  privileges  revealed  to 

22 


me,  for  the  first  time,  the  different  classes 
in  American  social  life ;  and  third,  because 
I  wanted  to  write  and  did  not  want  to 
study.  I  had  lost  all  taste  for  school 
books. 

On  composition  day  I  undertook  to 
distinguish  myself  by  writing  a  "  narra 
tive,"  as  the  class  was  requested,  but  my 
ardent  love-story  only  called  forth  a  kind 
rebuke  from  gentle  Miss  Ware,  and  I  was 
told  to  avoid  reading  the  "  New  York 
Ledger." 

After  one  term  I  begged  my  mother 
to  allow  me  to  remain  at  home  and 
write,  and  she  wisely  consented. 

I  took  to  my  profession  with  a  new 
ardor  and  enthusiasm  after  that. 

My  first  check  came  from  Frank  Les 
lie's  publishing  house.  I  wrote  asking  for 
one  of  his  periodicals  to  be  sent  me  in 
return  for  three  little  poems  I  had  com- 

23 


posed  in  one  day.  In  reply  came  a  check 
for  ten  dollars,  saying  I  must  select  which 
one  of  some  thirteen  publications  they 
issued  at  that  time. 

This  bit  of  crisp  paper  opened  a  per 
fect  floodgate  of  aspiration,  inspiration  and 
ambition  for  me.  I  had  not  thought  of 
earning  money  so  soon.  I  had  expected 
to  obtain  only  books,  magazines  and 
articles  of  use  and  beauty  from  the  editor's 
prize  lists,  and  I  had  not  supposed  verses 
to  be  salable.  I  wrote  them  because  they 
came  to  me,  but  I  expected  to  be  a 
novelist  like  Mrs.  Southworth  and  May 
Agnes  Fleming  in  time — that  was  the  goal 
of  my  dreams.  The  check  from  L,eslie 
was  a  revelation.  I  walked,  talked,  thought 
and  dreamed  in  verse  after  that.  A  day 
which  passed  without  a  poem  from  my 
pen  I  considered  lost  and  misused.  Two 
each  day  was  my  idea  of  industry,  and  I 

24 


once  achieved  eight.  They  sold — the  ma 
jority — for  three  dollars  or  five  dollars 
each.  Sometimes  I  got  ten  dollars  for  a 
poem — that  was  always  an  event.  Short 
love  stories,  over  which  I  labored  pain 
fully,  as  story  writing  was  an  acquired 
habit,  also  added  to  my  income  bringing 
me  ten  or  fifteen  dollars  and  once  in  a 
while  larger  sums  from  "  Peterson's," 
il  Demorest's,"  "  Harper's  Bazar "  and  the 
"Chimney  Corner." 

Everything  in  life  was  material  for  me 
— my  own  emotions,  the  remarks  or  ex 
periences  of  my  comrades  and  associates, 
sentences  from  books  I  read  and  some 
phases  of  nature. 

At  a  Thanksgiving  Eve  ball  I  recollect 
waltzing  with  a  very  good  looking  young 
man  whom  I  met  there  for  the  first  time. 
The  band  played  one  of  Strauss'  waltzes. 
As  we  floated  about  the  hall  I  thought 

25 


to  myself,  "If  I  were  desperately  in  love 
with  this  man  and  he  cared  for  some  one 
else,  this  waltz  would  sound  like  a  dirge 
to  me."  So  the  next  day  I  wrote  a  little 
poem  called  "  The  Dirge "  (which  paid 
for  my  slippers),  and  was  widely  copied. 

"  The  Waltz-Quadrille,"  one  of  my  most 
popular  early  verses,  was  similarly  con 
ceived.  I  had  promised  the  quadrille  at  a 
commencement  ball  at  Madison  University 
to  a  man  on  the  eve  of  a  journey  who 
was  unable  to  find  me  when  the  number 
was  called.  Although  I  did  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  dance  with  him,  I  wrote 
the  poem  and  sent  him  a  copy  of  it,  say 
ing,  "  This  is  the  way  I  should  have  felt 
had  I  been  in  love  with  you  and  had  I 
danced  the  waltz-quadrille  with  you  just 
before  your  departure  from  Madison." 

The  editors  seemed  to  want  these  heart- 
wails,  and  once  returned  a  historical  poem 

26 


I  ventured  to  write,  saying,  "Send  us 
little  heartache  verses — those  are  what 
our  readers  like." 

A  new  line  of  railroad  came  through 
the  county  and  we  had  three  mails  a 
week  and  a  post  office  only  three  miles 
away.  My  good  single-pacer  was  sold,  but 
my  father  had  taken  an  old  horse,  u  Burney," 
in  trade,  and  my  brothers  had  purchased 
a  light  top-buggy.  I  used  to  write  my 
daily  stint  of  several  poems  and  perhaps 
a  story  and  with  a  half  dozen  manuscripts 
addressed  to  as  many  editors,  I  would 
harness  old  Burney  and  drive  to  the  post 
office  with  my  brain  wares,  and  great 
was  the  day  when  I  brought  home  a 
check.  Harper  paid  me  fifteen  dollars  for 
one  poem,  Leslie  sent  me  a  check  of 
forty  dollars  for  ten  poems  and  a  short 
story,  "  The  Saturday  Evening  Post "  sent 
me  a  set  of  Dickens,  all  within  a  period 

27 


of  six  months  after  my  first  money  suc 
cess. 

It  seemed  wonderful  to  me  and  to 
the  family  and  to  the  neighbors. 

Until  I  began  to  earn  money  the  neigh 
bors  had  criticized  my  mother  for  keeping 
me  out  of  the  kitchen  and  allowing  me 
to  "  scribble "  so  much.  But  when  they 
found  me  able  with  one  day's  work  at 
my  desk  to  hire  an  assistant  in  the  house 
for  a  month  they  began  to  respect  my 
talent. 

I  often  wish  the  scores  of  grown  men 
and  women  who  write  to  me  for  "  aid  and 
influence "  in  getting  into  print  could 
know  just  how  I  found  my  way  into  the 
favor  of  editors.  It  was  by  sheer  per 
sistence.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  ask 
advice  or  assistance  of  strangers.  I  am 
glad  it  did  not,  for  the  moment  we  lean 
upon  any  one  but  the  Divine  Power  and 

28 


the  divinity  within  us  we  lessen  our  chances 
of  success.  I  often  receive  letters  now 
from  writers  in  the  West  asking  me  to 
use  my  influence  with  editors  in  their 
behalf  and  saying,  "  You  must  realize  from 
your  own  early  struggles  how  impossible 
it  is  to  get  a  start  in  an  Eastern  peri 
odical  without  a  friend  at  court."  No 
more  absurd  idea  ever  existed.  Eastern 
editors  are  on  the  lookout  for  new  talent 
constantly  and  if  a  writer  possesses  it,  to 
gether  with  persistence,  he  will  succeed 
whether  he  lives  in  the  Western  desert  or 
in  the  metropolis  and  without  any  friend 
at  court. 

I  frequently  sent  out  ten  manuscripts 
in  one  post,  to  have  nine  come  back  with 
drooping  heads.  But  I  sent  them  forth 
on  another  voyage  by  the  next  mail.  I 
kept  a  series  of  crude  books  with  a  list 
of  the  periodicals  and  the  travels  of  each 

29 


poem  or  story  inscribed  therein.  Many  a 
manuscript  took  nine  or  ten  journeys  to 
New  York  and  Boston  before  it  found 
acceptance.  One  story  declined  by  nine 
editors  (and  ridiculed  by  the  ninth  on  the 
margin)  brought  seventy-five  dollars  from 
the  tenth — the  largest  price  I  had  ever 
received. 

My  world  grew  larger  with  each  sun 
rise,  it  seemed  to  me.  People  from  Mad 
ison,  Milwaukee  and  Chicago  began  to 
write  me  and  seek  me  out.  I  was  invited 
to  visit  city  homes,  and  while  this  was  a 
delight  bordering  on  ecstasy  and  a  relief 
from  the  depressing  atmosphere  of  home 
anxieties,  it  yet  brought  with  it  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  world's  demands,  which, 
added  to  those  of  duty  and  necessity, 
made  a  larger  income  imperative. 

A  Milwaukee  editor  offered  me  forty- 
five  dollars  a  month  to  edit  the  literary 

30 


department  of  a  trade  magazine.  I  ac 
cepted,  but  the  office  hours  and  order  of 
work  were  wholly  distasteful  to  me.  I 
was  not  sorry  when  the  venture  failed  at 
the  expiration  of  three  months.  It  was 
the  only  experience  of  my  life  in  attempt 
ing  an  office  position. 

Much  of  the  very  earliest  work  of  my 
pen  was  devoted  to  poems  on  total  absti 
nence — a  subject  on  which  the  family  was 
very  enthusiastic.  These  verses,  some  fifty 
in  number,  were  issued  in  book  form 
during  my  teens  under  the  title  of  u  Drops 
of  Water."  I  received  fifty  dollars  for  the 
copyright,  and  am  sure  Mr.  Rockefeller 
feels  no  richer  today  with  his  millions 
than  I  did  with  my  book  and  check. 

Scarcely  a  year  later  I  published,  by 
subscription,  my  first  miscellaneous  collec 
tion,  "Shells,"  now  out  of  print.  Then  I 
grew  ambitious  to  write  a  story  in  verse 

31 


and  devoted  the  best  part  of  a  summer 
to  composing  "Maurine."  Even  the  name 
was  my  own  creation — suggested  to  me  by 
a  short  poem  of  Nora  Perry's  entitled 
"  Norine." 

When  my  book  was  completed  I  made 
a  visit  to  Chicago  and  called  upon  Jansen 
&  McClurg,  expecting  that  staid  firm 
to  eagerly  seize  upon  my  proffered  manu 
script,  which  I  thought  was  to  bring  me 
world-wide  fame  and  fortune.  Instead,  it 
was  declined  with  thanks  and  I  was  in 
formed  that  they  had  never  heard  of  me. 
After  repeated  efforts  and  failures,  I  in 
duced  a  Wisconsin  firm  to  get  the  book 
out.  It  barely  paid  expenses.  But  two 
years  later  I  was  made  happy  by  having 
Jansen  &  McClurg  write  and  request  the 
privilege  of  republishing  the  volume  with 
additional  short  poems. 

Much  of  my  earlier  work  was  tinctured 

32 


with  melancholy  both  real  and  imaginary. 
Young  poets  almost  invariably  write  of 
sorrow.  Naturally  of  a  happy  disposition, 
I  had  my  moods  of  depression,  veritable 
luxuries  of  misery. 

There  was  continual  worry  at  home. 
No  one  was  resigned  or  philosophical.  My 
mother  hated  her  hard-working  lot,  for 
which  she  was  totally  unfitted,  and  con 
stantly  rebelled  against  it  like  a  caged 
animal  beating  against  iron  bars,  while  she 
did  her  distasteful  tasks  with  a  Spartan- 
like  adherence  to  duty,  doubting  the  dom 
inance  of  an  all-wise  Ruler  who  could  con 
demn  her  to  such  a  lot.  Like  thousands 
of  others  in  the  world,  she  had  not  learned 
that  through  love  and  faith  only  do  con 
ditions  change  for  the  better. 

The  home  was  pervaded  by  an  atmos 
phere  of  discontent  and  fatigue  and 
irritability. 

33 


From  reincarnated  sources  and  through 
prenatal  causes  I  was  born  with  unquench 
able  hope  and  unfaltering  faith  in  God 
and  guardian  spirits.  I  often  wept  myself 
to  sleep  after  a  day  of  disappointments 
and  worries  but  woke  in  the  morning 
singing  aloud  with  the  joy  of  life. 

I  always  expected  wonderful  things  to 
happen  to  me. 

In  some  of  the  hardest  days  when 
everything  went  wrong  with  everybody  at 
home  and  all  my  manuscripts  came  back 
for  six  weeks  at  a  time  without  one  ac 
ceptance,  I  recall  looking  out  of  my  little 
north  window  upon  the  lonely  road 
bordered  with  lonelier  Lombardy  poplars, 
and  thinking,  "  Before  night  something 
beautiful  will  happen  to  change  every 
thing."  There  was  so  much  I  wanted ! 
I  wanted  to  bestow  comfort,  ease  and 
pleasure  on  everybody  at  home.  I  wanted 

34 


lovely  gowns — ah,  how  I  wanted  them ! — 
and  travel  and  accomplishments.  I  wanted 
summers  by  the  sea — the  sea  which  I  had 
read  of  but  had  never  seen — and  on  moon 
light  nights  these  longings  grew  so 
aggressive  I  often  pinned  the  curtain  down 
and  shut  out  the  rays  that  seemed  to  in 
tensify  my  loneliness,  and  I  would  creep 
into  my  little  couch  under  the  sloping 
eaves,  musing,  "  Another  beautiful  night 
of  youth  wasted  and  lost."  And  I  would 
awaken  happy  in  spite  of  myself  and  put 
all  my  previous  melancholy  into  verses — 
and  dollars. 

Once  I  read  a  sentence  which  became 
a  life  motto  to  me.  "  If  you  haven't  what 
you  like,  try  to  like  what  you  have."  I 
bless  the  author  of  that  phrase — it  was 
such  a  help  to  me  just  as  I  was  nearing 
the  borders  of  the  family  pessimism  and 
chronic  discontent.  I  tried  from  that  hour 

35 


to  find  something  I  liked  and  enjoyed  in 
each  day — something  I  could  be  thankful 
for,  and  I  found  much,  though  troubles 
increased  and  conditions  did  not  improve 
about  me. 

The  elder  children  married  and  had 
cares  of  their  own.  I  was  so  sorry  for  them 
— missing  the  beautiful  things  I  knew  life 
held. 

Slowly,  so  slowly,  it  seemed  to  me, 
my  work  and  my  income  increased.  I 
longed  for  sudden  success,  for  sudden  wealth. 
It  was  so  hard  to  wait — there  was  so 
much  to  be  done.  There  was  a  gentle 
hill  south  of  the  house ;  often  on  sum 
mer  evenings,  after  writing  all  day,  I 
climbed  this  ascent  at  sunset  and  looked 
eastward,  wondering  what  lay  for  me  beyond 
the  horizon.  I  always  had  the  idea  that 
my  future  would  be  associated  with  the  far 
West,  yet  it  was  to  the  East  I  invariably 

36 


looked.  My  knowledge  of  the  East  was 
bounded  by  Milwaukee  and  Chicago — the 
goal  of  happy  visits  two  or  three  times 
a  year. 

Sometimes  I  walked  through  the  pasture 
and  young  woods,  a  half  mile,  to  call  on 
Emma,  the  one  friend  who  knew  and  sym 
pathized  with  all  the  family  troubles. 
And  Emma  would  walk  back  with  me 
and  we  would  wonder  how  many  years 
longer  these  walks  and  talks  would  con 
tinue  for  us.  I  would  tell  her  of  my 
successes  in  my  work  and  she  and  her 
gentle  mother  rejoiced  in  them  as  if  they 
were  their  own  personal  triumphs.  Such 
restful  walks  and  talks  they  always  were. 
Dear  Emma ! 

When  publishing  "  Maurine  "  I  had  pur 
posely  omitted  more  than  twoscore  poems 
of  a  very  romantic  nature  in  order  to 

37 


save  the  volume  from  too  much  sentiment. 
Letters  began  to  come  to  me  requesting 
copies  of  these  verses — ardent  love  songs 
which  had  appeared  in  various  periodicals. 
This  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  issuing 
a  book  of  love  poems  to  be  called  u  Poems 
of  Passion."  To  think  was  to  do — for  I 
possessed  more  activity  than  caution  in 
those  days. 

As  just  related,  every  poem  in  the  book 
had  been  published  in  various  periodicals 
and  had  brought  forth  no  criticism.  My 
amazement  can  hardly  be  imagined,  there 
fore,  when  Jansen  &  McClurg  returned  the 
manuscript  of  my  volume,  intimating  that 
it  was  immoral.  I  told  the  contents  of 
their  letter  to  friends  in  Milwaukee,  and 
it  reached  the  ears  of  a  sensational  morn 
ing  newspaper.  The  next  day  a  column 
article  appeared  with  large  headlines : — 

38 


"Too  LOUD   FOR   CHICAGO. 

"  THE  SCARLET   CITY  BY  THE   I, ARE  SHOCKED 

BY    A    BADGER    GIRL,    WHOSE    VERSES 

OUT-SWINBURNE   SWINBURNE    AND 

OUT-WHITMAN    WHITMAN." 

Every  newspaper  in  the  land  caught 
up  the  story  and  I  found  myself  an  ob 
ject  of  unpleasant  notoriety  in  a  brief  space 
of  time.  I  had  always  been  a  local 
celebrity,  but  this  was  quite  another  ex 
perience.  Some  friends  who  had  admired 
and  praised  now  criticized — though  they  did 
not  know  why.  I  was  advised  to  burn 
my  offensive  manuscript  and  assured  that 
in  time  I  might  live  down  the  shame  I 
had  brought  on  myself.  Yet  these  same 
friends  had  seen  these  verses  in  peri 
odicals  and  praised  them. 

All  this  but  stimulated  me  to  the  only 
vindication  I  desired — the  publication  of 
my  book.  A  Chicago  publisher  saw  his 

39 


opportunity  and  offered  to  bring  out  the 
book,  and  it  was  an  immediate  success. 
It  has  been  issued  in  London  also,  where 
it  met  with  immediate  favor. 

The  first  proceeds  of  its  sale  enabled 
me  to  rebuild  and  improve  the  old  home 
which  was  fast  going  to  ruin. 

L/ife,  which  had  been  a  slowly  widen 
ing  stream  for  me  at  this  period  seemed 
to  unite  with  the  ocean  of  success  and 
happiness. 

My  engagement,  though  not  announced, 
occurred  the  week  my  book  was  issued. 
One  year  later,  in  1884,  I  was  married 
to  one  of  God's  truest  noblemen  and 
came  East  to  live.  Burdens  long  borne 
alone  were  lifted  by  strong,  willing  hands, 
and  dreams  long  dreamed  became  realities, 
But  work,  which  had  been  a  necessity, 
had  grown  to  be  a  habit  and  still  forms  a 
large  element  of  life's  pleasures  for  me. 

40 


The  questions  and  longings  of  those 
summer  evenings  when  I  stood  in  the 
dying  glory  of  a  Wisconsin  sunset  on  the 
south  hill  back  of  the  lonely  little  home 
have  all  been  answered. 

For  I  am  one  who  lives  to  say 

My  skies  have  held  more  gold  than  gray, 

And  that  the  glory  of  the  real 

By  far  outshines  my  youth's  ideal. 


41 


INTERLUDE. 


WHEELER  WILCOX 

discreetly  closes  the  door  of 
her  life  upon  the  public,  at 
the  marriage  altar.  But  the 
public  of  "Ella  Wheeler," 
becomes  an  interested  world  for  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox,  so  distinctly  and  persistently  her 
audience  enlarges  with  the  years  and  so 
universal  becomes  her  reputation. 

However  she  might  like  to  retain  her 
privacy  as  a  wife,  and  woman,  humanity 
has  become  her  family,  and  insists  upon 
sitting  beside  her  at  home  or  abroad. 

Therefore  it  seems  a  necessity  to  give 
the  public  some  facts  concerning  the  later 
life  of  this  poet  and  author  to  supplement 
her  early  history  as  given  by  herself. 

43 


Ella  Wheeler  became  Mrs.  Robert  Wilcox 
on  May  ist,  1884,  at  Milwaukee,  Wisconsin. 
Mr.  Wilcox  was  engaged  in  the  manufacture 
of  sterling  silver  works  of  art,  and  his  busi 
ness  house,  from  which  he  retired  June, 
1904,  still  retains  his  name  "  The  Wilcox 
and  Wagoner  Co.,"  at  41  Union  Square, 
New  York. 

For  six  months  of  each  year,  from  No 
vember  to  May,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilcox  have 
resided  in  the  Metropolis  and  from  May  to 
November  in  their  Summer  home,  "  The 
Bungalow,"  Short  Beach,  Conn.,  a  few 
miles  east  of  Yale  College. 

Since  1891,  when  the  "Bungalow"  was 
built  by  Mr.  Wilcox,  their  happiest  season 
of  the  year  has  been  passed  in  that  artistic 
spot,  a  veritable  paradise  both  within  and 
without. 

During  the  early  years  of  her  married 
life,  Mrs.  Wilcox  made  a  happy  home  in 

44 


New  York  for  a  niece  of  her  own,  a  nephew 
and  niece  of  her  husband  and  for  one  or  two 
young  protegees  in  whom  she  became  inter 
ested.  All  are  now  successful  young  men 
and  women  in  various  vocations  of  life,  and 
all  devotedly  attached  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wilcox. 

A  son  (an  only  child)  was  born  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wilcox  on  May  27,  1887,  and 
lived  but  a  few  hours. 

Mrs.  Wilcox's  Sunday  afternoon  recep 
tions  have  been  a  feature  of  the  artistic  and 
literary  life  in  the  Metropolis.  Of  her 
summer  life  at  "  The  Bungalow,"  the  follow 
ing  account  written  by  one  of  her  girlhood 
friends  is  given. 

E.  T. 


45 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX'S 
SUMMER  HOME. 


N  the  heart  of  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox  it  is  written  that  every 
day  is  the  best  day  of  the 
year. 

For  over  twenty-nine  years 
she  has  been  repeatedly  saying  or  writing 
to  me :  u  This  is  the  happiest  summer  of 
my  life !" 

Of  buoyant  spirits,  and  one  of  the  few 
who  are  born  believing,  not  doubting ;  born 
hoping,  not  fearing ;  born  to  realize  what  it 
is  to  have  lived  an  hour,  rather  than  feel 
that  another  hour  of  life  has  passed,  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  naturally  exemplified  the 
maxims  of  Emerson — even  without  knowing 
it — years  ago  in  her  optimistic  girlhood. 

47 


The  season  of  1904  is  just  closing  at 
her  summer  home,  near  New  Haven,  where 
she  passes  six  months  each  year.  The  spot 
which  has  become  so  famous,  and  is  already 
distinctly  historic,  is  reached  by  trolley  from 
New  Haven  and  is  known  as  Short  Beach. 
In  a  characteristic  letter,  she  pronounced 
the  past  few  months  "  the  very  best  of 
fourteen  summers  at  the  Bungalow."  On 
the  scene,  I  comprehend  the  supremacy  of 
each,  with  its  recurring  pleasures  ever  being 
enriched  by  memories. 

From  California  to  Connecticut  was  a 
long,  long  journey.  From  the  white  breakers 
and  barren  sands  of  the  Pacific  to  the  rocky, 
wooded  shores  of  the  blue  Long  Island 
Sound,  was  quite  an  extensive  pilgrimage. 
But  I  declared  that  I  must  see  with  my  own 
eyes  this  already  famous  Eden  or  Paradise 
of  the  Poets,  created  by  Robert  and  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox. 

48 


So  I  traveled  over  leagues  and  leagues 
of  mountain,  valley,  desert  and  prairie  space 
to  feel  the  touch  of  a  glad  white  hand,  and 
hear  its  owner's  magnetic  voice  of  welcome. 

No  description  of  the  place  has  been 
adequate.  Dare  I  even  attempt  one  ?  The 
home  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  is  as  unusual 
as  the  individual.  It  is  equally  indescrib 
able.  The  stamp  of  her  genius  is  upon  it 
now,  during  her  lifetime,  and  before  her 
fame  has  reached  its  zenith,  only  because 
of  her  husband's  prophetic  insight  and  full 
appreciation.  Her  home  is  a  wonderful 
monument  that  he  is  devotedly  shaping  for 
her  pleasure  and  inspiration,  apparently,  but 
with  the  foreknowledge,  also,  that  it  is  a 
shrine,  yet  to  be  sought  and  valued  in 
American  literary  history. 

In  at  least  four  of  the  rooms  of  the  two 
houses  known  as  uThe  Bungalow"  and 
uThe  Barracks,"  autograph  pictures,  souve- 

49 


nirs  of  travel  in  different  lands;  original  oil 
paintings  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  and  her 
various  surroundings,  and  in  manifold  pos- 
ings,  presented  by  the  famous  artists  them 
selves  ;  water-color  sketches,  executed  right 
on  the  walls  by  her  gifted  artist  guests ; 
original  verse  by  famous  poets  and  music  by 
famous  musicians,  to  enthrall  the  gazer  for 
hours. 

On  every  side  and  in  every  corner  are 
trophies  and  treasures  to  attract  and  distract 
attention,  and  in  every  detail  of  arrangement 
Mr.  Wilcox,  it  seems  to  me,  has  thought  of 
posterity,  and  how  those  who  have  been 
helped  by  a  singing  soul  will  stand  upon  the 
stones  that  he  has  had  carved,  and  that  lead 
up  to  the  Bungalow,  and  will  sit  in  the 
significant  spots  and  feast  their  eyes  upon 
the  eloquent  proofs  of  his  love  for  her,  and 
of  the  love  of  those  who  have  enjoyed  his 
and  her  hospitality  for  many  blessed  years. 

50 


When  the  Bungalow  began  to  be  over 
crowded  with  treasures  and  the  succession  of 
house  parties  became  an  established  custom, 
instead  of  building  the  conventional  wing 
or  addition  needed,  Mr.  Wilcox  wisely  had 
another  house  erected.  It  meets  all  domestic 
requirements  and  has  ample  suites  for  guests. 
Because  of  it  the  Bungalow  is  devoted  ex 
clusively  to  her  ladyship.  The  annex,  ap 
propriately  named  "  The  Barracks,"  has 
some  features  quite  as  unique  and  charming 
as  the  first  house. 

The  dining  room  is  a  sightly  one,  but 
the  outside  views  cannot  long  beguile  the 
glances  of  guests.  The  handwriting  on  the 
walls  is  eloquent.  A  talented  young  artist, 
who  is  a  member  of  the  household,  has  for 
a  number  of  years  retraced  with  her  paint 
brush  the  original  lines,  using  black  paint 
for  words  and  red  for  capital  letters.  This 
leaves  everything  clear  and  brightly  illutn- 

51 


inated.  The  chimney  side-wall  is  full 
and  space  on  the  opposite  side  is  filling 
rapidly. 

It  was  on  Sunday  morning,  August  21, 
that  those  who  gathered  around  the  break 
fast  table  read  in  fresh  lettering,  with  the 
autograph  of  the  hostess  below,  and  in  the 
center  of  all  (which  had  been  the  only  bit 
of  space  left): 

"  Love  and  the  sea  and  summer — 
What  could  blend 

With  that  rare  mixture  but  a  perfect  friend  ? 
Therefore,  we  summon  from  the  court  of  art 
The  aristocracy  of  brain  and  heart." 

Of  course,  each  friend  under  the  hospit 
able  roof  must  have  deemed  herself  the 
perfect  one  alluded  to,  and  there  was  no  lack 
of  harmony,  and  the  little  queen  of  the 
quill  and  the  festive  board,  who  had  beckoned 
a  group  from  afar,  did  seem  to  have  reached 
the  climax  of  contentment  with  so  much 

52 


love,  so  much  sea  and  so  much  summer  all 
about  her. 

Below  her  verse  is  the  autograph  of  Cre- 
atore  ;  near  it  are  these  lines,  signed  Ralph 
Waldo  Trine : 

"  So  runs  life's  law — what  one  lives  in 
his  thought  world  sooner  or  later  he  will 
find  objectified  in  his  life." 

Under  these  lines  are  some  by  Edwin 
Markham  with  his  signature  : 

"  Place  where  passing  souls  can  rest 
On  their  way  and  do  their  best." 

Below  these  Justin  Huntly  McCarthy  has 
written  : 

"Omar,  the  tent-maker,  Omar,  the  seer, 
Believed  in  seven  heavens,  sphere  on  sphere — 
But  had  he  known  this  earthly  paradise 
He  would  have  said:  '  Another  heaven  is  here.'  " 

Lines  and  signatures  of  Wallace  Bruce, 
Josephine  Gro,  Amelia  Bingham,  Zona  Gale, 
Ridgeley  Torrence,  Charles  Hanson  Towne, 
etc.,  follow.  The  latter  wrote  : 

53 


"  Abou  Ben  Adhein  (God  bless  old  Ben) 
Said  4  Write  me  as  one  who  loved  his  fellowmen.' 
But  I  now  say  and  so  will  you  I  know, 
1  Write  me  as  one  who  loves  the  Bungalow.'  " 

Framed  photos  with  autographs  of  Henry 
George,  Anthony  Hope,  William  Gillette, 
Marshall  P.  Wilder  and  many  others  are 
interspersed  with  the  written  Bungalow 
and  Barracks'  praises  of  Julie  Opp  Faver- 
sham,  Helen  Bartlett  Bridgman,  Hartley 
Manners,  and  hosts  of  well-known  musicians, 
artists  and  writers.  There  are  bars  of  music, 
and  exquisite  little  sketches  of  the  rocks, 
the  Angora  pets,  the  boats  and  the  sea. 

Carl  Blenner,  famous  for  beautiful  heads, 
has  put  one  of  his  finest  on  the  walls.  He 
comes  here  regularly  every  summer.  Mabel 
Williamson  (known  as  "Billy"  in  the  Bun 
galow  fraternity)  has  left  a  charming  picture 
of  the  stone  steps  in  front,  under  which  she 
has  written : 

54 


"  Lovers'  Lane,  as  }TOU  may  know 
Leads  up  to  the  Bungalow." 

Dear  friends  of  the  hostess  here  at  this 
time  form  a  coterie  from  New  York,  and 
their  names  are  not  unfamiliar  even  to  a 
Californian — Theodosia  Garrison,  Martha 
Jordan-Fischel,  Kate  Jordan  Verrnilye  and 
Gertrude  Lynch. 

On  the  way  here  I  saw  the  homes  of 
Longfellow  and  Lowell  in  Boston,  and  of 
Kmerson,  Hawthorne  and  the  Alcotts  in 
Concord.  With  loyal  emotions  I  gazed  upon 
their  exteriors.  Far-sighted  and  spiritually 
gifted  is  the  man  who,  if  the  transcendent 
genius  of  all  American  women  poets,  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox,  died  today,  could,  from  all 
appearances,  after  making  a  few  changes, 
allow  the  doors  to  open  to  all  who  prize 
the  hallowed  associations  of  the  goddess. 

Here  is  her  pretty  desk,  near  wide  win 
dows,  facing  the  broad  Atlantic,  and  the 

55 


picturesque  coves  where  the  row  boats  rock, 
and  the  bathers  sun  themselves  on  bright 
mornings,  and  the  birds  build  nests  on  over 
hanging  branches,  and  where  she  pens 
thoughts  that  are  helping  the  world  to  be 
more  loving  and  cheerful,  more  humane, 
more  philosophic  and  more  progressive. 

There  is  a  shelf  on  which  stand  the 
many  books  she  has  published,  and  from 
which,  perhaps,  someone,  perhaps  a  boy  who 
now  chases  butterflies,  will  gather  material 
for  the  careful  classification  of  her  prolific 
writings.  Over  in  the  corner  on  a  big, 
pillow-piled  divan  her  noted  Angora  cats  are 
curled  in  purring  slumber,  or  are  lifting 
their  handsome  heads  to  listen  to  her  caress 
ing  tone. 

On  the  long,  vine-covered  porches  encir 
cling  the  Bungalow,  are  large  swinging 
chairs,  aeolian  harps  that  never  cease  playing 
their  soft  wind  tunes  as  the  sea  breezes  sway 

56 


them,  and  tables  with  names  of  distinguished 
visitors  carved  on  the  tops  (their  hand 
writings  made  indelible  with  Mrs.  Wilcox's 
sharp  knife). 

All  the  hieroglyphics  belong  to  contem 
porary  writers,  poets,  artists,  or  actors,  some 
of  national  and  some  of  international  reputa 
tion,  who  have  been  callers  at  the  Bungalow, 
coming  out  from  New  York,  or  favored  house 
guests  for  several  days,  forming  congenial 
groups  of  literati  from  everywhere. 

Hardly  an  hour  of  any  day  passes  from 
June  to  September  or  October  that  does  not 
find  strangers  alighting  from  the  cars  at 
Bungalow  Lane.  They  are  eager  to  see  the 
celebrated  home  of  the  poet,  and  if  possible 
to  have  an  interview  with  her  or  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  on  the  quaint  rustic  bridge  or 
the  massive  rocks,  watch  her  skillful  swim 
ming  or,  at  a  safe  distance,  laughingly  take  a 

57 


kodak  picture  as  she  feeds  her  Angoras  under 
the  oak  trees. 

Her  nearest  neighbors  in  the  adjacent 
cottages  glide  in  and  out  of  the  Bungalow 
quite  informally,  never  stopping  to  rap,  steal 
ing  away  silently  if  they  see  her  busy  at  her 
desk  or  chatting  with  visitors — dropping  in 
so  often,  however,  that  I  wonder  how  or  when 
she  gets  enough  alone  to  accomplish  all  she 
does.  Since  I  have  been  here  the  number 
and  variety  of  persons  who  have  come  to 
consult  her  on  all  sorts  of  projects,  ask  and 
give  advice,  bring  her  flowers,  books,  pic 
tures,  offer  homage  of  some  kind  and  vanish 
with  an  air  of  proud  satisfaction,  have 
impressed  me  like  the  moving  scenes  of  the 
biograph. 

When  not  writing  she  is  the  very  soul  of 
democratic  geniality,  and  anyone  can  ap 
proach  her  and  rejoice  in  her  sympathetic 
attention,  but  in  spite  of  so  much  publicity 

58 


there  is  the  strange  anomaly  of  real  seclusion 
at  the  Bungalow. 

The  daily  mail  delivered  at  the  Bunga 
low  is  almost  a  perambulating  town  post 
office  itself. 

I  doubt  if  there  is  any  writer  in  this  or 
any  other  country  whose  private  correspond 
ence  is  of  such  infinite  variety.  This  is 
because  there  is  no  literary  man  or  woman  of 
genius  that  I  can  think  of  who  is  so  universal 
in  her  sympathies  as  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox; 
who  has  reached  all  classes  of  readers,  high, 
medium,  low  and  lowly ;  lovers  of  song  and 
story ;  lovers  of  art,  philosophy,  religion, 
humanitarianism,  reform.  Her  work  and  her 
name  are  familiar  to  every  type  of  thinkers, 
toilers,  dreamers  and  visionaries,  and  the 
great  mass  of  the  successful  and  unsuccessful 
are  represented  by  those  who  crave  the  per 
sonal  element  in  their  relations  with  her. 
Hundreds  who  fail  to  see  her,  or  talk  with 

59 


her,  or  receive  answers  to  their  letters  get 
the  pertinent  reply  in  her  printed  poems  or 
articles. 

I  believe  that  no  human  soul  appeals  to 
her  in  vain  for  such  light,  or  aid,  or  uplifts 
as  she  can  give. 

Who  could  have  predicted  years  ago 
when  Ella  Wheeler  of  Wisconsin  wrote 
"  Solitude "  (which  she  read  to  me  enthusi 
astically  in  the  midst  of  its  production,  and 
which  was  spontaneous  excepting  a  few  lines 
she  was  perfecting),  that  she  would  reach  just 
as  many  people  eventually  by  her  prose 
writings  as  by  her  verses. 

But  I  believe  her  best  poems  are  yet  to 
be  written.  She  has  the  genius  to  express 
in  rhymed  lines  or  blank  verse  that  which 
will  give  the  nearest  approach  to  immortality 
that  any  American  writer  thus  far  has  even 
tentatively  suggested. 

ELLA  GILES  RUDDY. 

60 


A    LIST    OF*    BOOKS 

By    ELIZABftETH    TOW3TJE. 


PRACTICAL   METHODS    FOR   SELF-DEVELOPMENT;    SPIRIT 
UAL,  MENTAL,  PHYSICAL. 

Just  out;  160  pages  on  antique  paper,  new  half -tone  of  the 

author;  well  bound  in  cloth;  price,  $1.00. 
JOY  PHILOSOPHY. 

75  large  pages,  bound  in  purple  silk  cloth  stamped  in  gold; 

price,  $1.00.    "  Every  line  sparkles  with  life  and  original 

thought." 
THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN. 

15  chapters,  green  and  gold,  flexible  cover,  half-tone  of  the 

author;  price,  50  cents.     "Full  of  thought  starters."     "In 

many  respects  the  most  remarkable  book  I  ever  read." 
HOW  TO  GROW  SUCCESS. 

71  pages,  strong  paper  cover,  picture  of  author;  price,  50 

cents.     "A  well  of  information  and  help." 
EXPERIENCES  IN  SELF  HEALING. 

A  spiritual  autobiography  and  guide  to  realization,  intensely 

alive  and  helpful;  new  and  best  portrait  of  the  author;  price, 

50  cents.     "A  book  of  strong  common  sense,  lighting  up  what 

to  many  is  a  path  of  fear  and  mystery."    "Has  done  me  more 

good  than  anything  else." 
HAPPINESS  AND  MARRIAGE. 

The  ounce  of  prevention  and  the  pound  of  cure;  80  pages; 

heavy  paper  binding;  likeness  of  author;  price,  50  cents. 

"The  needed  book."    "The  ounce  of  prevention  and  the  pound 

of  cure." 
JUST  HOW  TO  WAKE  THE  SOLAR  PLEXUS, 

Paper  bound;  price,  25  cents.    "It  contains  a  FORTUNE 

in  value."    "Breathing  exercises  of  great  value."    "Not  only 

the  key,  but  explicit  method." 
JUST  HOW  TO  CONCENTRATE. 

Paper;  price,  25  cents.    "I  bugle  call  to  those  who  sleep."1 

"A  power  and  an  inspiration."    "So  helpful." 
HOW  TO  TRAIN  CHILDREN  AND  PARENTS. 

Paper;  price,  25  cents.    "It  is  great!"    "Every  father  and 

mother  should  have  it." 
JUST  HOW  TO  COOK  MEALS  WITHOUT  MEAT. 

Paper;  price,  25  cents. 

Order  any  of  the  above  of  the  Author, 
El,  1 X  AIIETII  TO  W  *  E.  Dept.  1OO,  Bolyoke, 


READ  THE  NAUTILUS 

AND  BE  GLAD. 

NAUTILUS  is  a  unique  monthly  magazine,  standard  size  (now 
in  its  seventh  year),  edited  by  Elizabeth  Towne  and  William  E. 
Towne.  The  present  volume  will  contain  in  addition  to  many 
good  things  by  the  editors  and  others, 

J4   NEW   POEMS 
By  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Also    13   Splendid  Articles  by  FLOYD  B.  WILSON, 
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